


KMOMNBO - Accompanying Fic Stuff

by KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay



Series: KMOMNBO - Monthly Challenges [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Art, Drabbles, Plot, smh, that i ended up not using
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 15,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay/pseuds/KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay
Summary: Mostly art for any fic concerning the mneiai's challenges of mine. May eventually contain challenge fanart. Other stuff included is possible edits, drabbles, plot bunnies and just stuff that didn't fit into the challenge.
Series: KMOMNBO - Monthly Challenges [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912549
Comments: 78
Kudos: 47





	1. Haast - Herrah

I dunno if this will work, but I'm gonna try to find a good way to get this done. Starting by testing stuff, and then using a verified thing.

Here's a She but better.


	2. Haast - Herrah & Kisa

A younger Herrah and Baby Kisa. Herrah is the happiest aunt alive and if you try to tell anyone she cried no one will ever find your body.


	3. Haast - Herrah & The Niblings

Herrah and her niblings. Obi-Wan budged into the photo. Shame on him. >;v

Lineup, (Obi-Wan >:V) (Nilin, Human) (Herrah, Uh. Mostly Human. Mandalorians genetics are weird..) (Venat, Twi'lek) (Tam, Kiffar) and (Kisa, Human) 

Buff aunt is weak for her small family members and has been demoted into toy and child carrier. Kisa is really into her armor rn smh.


	4. Haast - Hakim & Herrah

The Twins - One with blonde herrah, for ref.

Yes Hakim knows that his sister wears it better, yes she is very Mandokarla, yes she is very handsome please shut up.

If Hakim has to listen to another oversized baby commando wax poetic about his twin again _he is going to murder someone_


	5. Haast - Herrah Putting The Fear Of God Into Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knows who.

I was intending to just draw the twins, but the local beroya demanded screentime. I don't know who she's threatening yet. 


	6. Haast - Ben Viern

Obi: New comm who dis.

Obi: Obi-Wan who?? This is Ben Viern you have the wrong number smh.

(Jinn calls every month because if he showed up in person Bad Stuff would happen.)


	7. Vencuyot - Yellow

Yellow hasn't appeared yet,, but he will. _Trust me._

Can verify, this guy appears rough and charming but inside he is an actual puppy please pat him. If any of the vode ask, this guy could practically smuggle near anything onto Kamino. He sweet talks nat-born officers into giving him small harmless stuff like extra sugar rations and his yellow nail polish. Half of them are amused by it, half of them are actually charmed.

a choice few actively seek him out to give him tiny things like paracord or weird crosswords and he is Delight.

If you want to talk about him!! Please!! Hit me up on discord or straight up in the comments I Am Excite!!


	8. Vencuyot - Drabble - CT-6717

CT-6717 should have died a long time ago. His batchmates didn’t like talking about it. Sometimes he doesn’t like talking about it either. He didn’t have any genetic defects that the Kaminoans knew of, he was too young to do training courses that could possibly kill him, and he had only gotten _one_ decommissioning threat! So what could’ve possibly killed a young clone during his growth cycle?

It was a joke. A bad joke that probably would have gotten them put into enough extra training to make them too tired to even _try_ to sleep at night. Something they never should have really considered, something they should have thought through, planned more thoroughly for.

To understand the rest, you’d need to understand the rumors floating around Kamino at the time. What had been occurring.

There had been a security breach. It was concerning. The long-necks we’re breaking their masks in front of the clones, pacing, working on the security measures insistently. One clone even had the gall to ask what the white spots on the walls we’re while a Kaminoan was trying to calm down. The long-neck, perhaps rambling in order to distract itself, had given the clone a lecture on ultraviolet light, color spectrums that mere human eyes couldn’t see, and tried to describe the particular thing they we’re looking at.

It was perhaps one of the least hostile, and least professional interactions anyone on the station had seen between a long-neck and a clone before.

That didn’t excuse the security breach.

Some of the A-batch clones we’re overheard talking about sightings, talking about trainers talking about weird things. They used lots of words that CT-6717 didn’t understand yet, words in Mando’a that he had never been taught.

He wouldn’t learn about what a lot of the rumors meant until later in his life.

The ones he did grasp though, spoke of a figure, the person who had somehow broken into Kamino without raising a single alarm until the original had spoken to a supervisor about it themselves.

The A-batch liked to call the original the beta version, it was rude, he knew. They brought the original up a lot, apparently the only reason this figure was on Kamino was because of him.

The figure went around for months, and more rumors popped up. Some people laughed about them, some people we’re paranoid, and some, like the clones, we’re slightly in awe.

The figure had been leaving things in the trainers rooms, they said, the figure had taped notes around the place, they said, the figure was nothing but a shadow, some said, under a cover of giggles.

Somehow, during this, his batch had managed to plan a trip outside, a quick glimpse of the rains and the ocean and the architecture from an outside view, they said. He objected to it for the normal reasons, the reasons other people didn’t do such things for, but eventually in the end, he caved.

No one talked about it, because no one wanted to get another vod in trouble with a Kaminoan, but these trips weren’t uncommon, weren’t unusual. _And they usually didn’t resort to dead clones._

The batch didn’t know, had no idea what the weather would be like, if they’d get caught, where they’d sneak out. One of these things, in the end, would end up being critical information, information they would swear to never not take into account again.

The clones laughed, layered up their training blacks, and the clothes they wore to classes, hoping to keep some of their warmth, and they snuck out. An elder vod had spotted them, some unusually layered up, giggling clones, and let them pass by with a warm grin and a headshake.

The day they had chosen, unknown to them, had been a bad one. Trainers had been stuck on Kamino, the Kaminoans hadn’t even gone riding to report information in the past few days, and these young, ever so dumb little adiik didn’t think anything was weird about it.

The rain poured, but the rain always poured, and the wind blew, but the wind always blew, and the platform they we’re on had small railings, and was soaked enough that none of them could get a grip with their boots. CT-6719 fell on his shebs, and they laughed.

But the winds got stronger. The sky was darker, and CT-6717 almost went soaring off the station, but that would have been far too elegant a word for it. He would have probably bashed his head, probably would have drowned at the bottom of what seemed like never ending ocean, if it hadn’t been for the figure.

Everyone, at that point, was screaming, scrambling to get their baby brother up, away from the railing, from becoming another _accident._ They were scared, so, so scared. And as a result, after the incident, no one had seen what the figure had looked like. Nothing more than a block of colors that mixed into the Kaminoan sky, the wind, the roaring rain torrenting the station.

Except for CT-6717. He had seen them. They had pulled them straight out of the air, into their chest like he wasn’t just another copy, something expendable. They clung, and clung, and clung.

The most vivid thing he had seen, so scarce a color, was yellow.

Yellow gauntlets clung to his layers, probably the only thing saving him from hypothermia. No one knew why he clung to that so fiercely, that color.

Maybe because it was the only thing he could see, maybe because he had only ever seen it in glimpses.

-

CT-6717 told his batch that his name was Yellow after that day, and that was it.


	9. Vencuyot - Drabble - He Who Is Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Likely a prelude.

A fair few saw Yellow, assumed he was in the 212th due to the color of his armor, and then underestimated him because he worked on command. Yellow himself would like to protest that no sane clone would ever want his job, and that his armor was closer to the 327th Star Corps.

Some _Jetti_ refused to work with Vos, and everyone in the GAR knew that all of their generals we’re at least somewhat insane. That was how bad his kriffing situation was. He just couldn’t understand why Vos couldn’t get a normal handler like every other shadow without a battalion. A voice in the back of his head reminded him that he was expendable, and cheaper, and most definitely Vos’s kriffing handler.

If he wasn’t so loathing of the situation, he would have been proud of himself for snagging a position that usually went to a much older, much better trained, nat-born.

Unfortunately for him, Vos was an absolute nightmare to deal with.

Yellow was good at his job, wouldn’t claim to be any better than that (though several other people would.) and if he could relay commands effectively enough to two-hundred men at once, he was pretty sure he could do better with only one comm to keep track of.

That was until he met the _mir’sheb_ himself. The memory itself welded a scowl on his face, an expression several people didn’t witness from him, ever. The other command stations he had worked on we’re either too terrified to talk about it or the exact same way. Only a command clone knew the kriffing pain of trying to order around _jetti_ and stubborn _vod’e_ . The position turned the sweetest of clones into screaming _monsters_.

Quinlan Vos approached him on Kamino, and the first thing he did was compliment his polish and then proceed to _flirt like hell_. If Vos has stopped after the polish compliment, Yellow probably would like him just a smidgen better. The bastard, unfortunately, did not get the memo and was persistent as kriff until Yellow legitimately stormed off before he could slap his new CO up the head.

It wasn’t like Quinlan wasn’t attractive, no, he was, but Yellow was a kriffing professional and refused to stand down. He knew, from experience, that he shouldn’t have, that if you gave a _Jetti_ a klick they took an entire freaking parsec. You had to be stubborn with them or they straight up refused to listen.

Being a singular clone not explicitly tied to a battalion was admittedly lonely. But he saw _vod’e_ all the time. Running deliveries, hijacking their command rooms, or hitching a ride with Vos to the next place they needed to be.

He spent a lot of time in heavily blocked off rooms, running interference, it wasn’t part of his job description, but he assumed that his slicing scores we’re partially why he was assigned to Vos in the first place. He brushed away whatever fine prints Quinlan had accidentally left behind, and this had probably saved his life at least thrice now.

He could honestly live without the constant flirting or flat out suggestiveness though. Quin’s voice purred into his headset, easier to manage than an actual comm.

“Hey ‘Low, how am I doing up there? Last guy seemed pretty nasty. Anything I need to know before I finish off this deal?”

Yellow grumbled, but switched his mic on. “You’ve got a kriffing talent for running into absolute bantha-crap Vos, but so far so good. But please, stop flirting with your target's hired blasters. One day they’re just going to shoot you first.”

Quin laughed on the other side of the comm. “Jealous ‘Low? You know I’d never forget about you.” Yellow fought the blush that he still hadn’t gotten used to.

“Hardly,” He scoffed, “Do you want to hear about how Commander Bly walked into another door frame within distance of General Secura?” He mocked.

He could honestly hear Quin’s scowl. “Yellow, you're not nice to me. But do a _jetti_ a favor and kick his ass for me,” Vos had purposely used his own pronunciation of the word.

“Finish the contact on time and get back here to do it yourself General. _Meh gar kyrayc, shuk bah ni._ Don’t die.”

Quin mocked, but he got the message. “Oh trust me, I’ll get back just fine, I’ve still got to convince you to kiss me before I can die ‘Low.”


	10. Vencuyot - Drabble - Batch Of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> The discord offered up a good chunk of the names, so I claim zero responsibility for more than Yellow and Caves. Z E R O.

Yellow was one in a literal millon, and yet there were people who could pick him out of a crowd in a heartbeat. He nearly toppled over when Caves lunged at him. The clone looked and felt like he was taller and just generally bigger than everyone else, even though he was the standard size for a clone. He was a madman and Yellow was happy to have grown up with him.

He was not happy, however, to suffocate in his grip. Caves had ridiculously huge arms and a desire to hug every _vod_ that didn’t straight up have haphephobia. He banged a hand on his back until Caves decided to mercifully release him.

Yellow very quickly stepped out of range. Caves was used to it at this point and only grinned. “You here for deliveries, to convince Rex into letting you hijack your own corner of the command field, or are you finally here to spend some quality time with your _vod_?” Caves cooed.

He looked at Caves, over to the very clearly loaded speeder he had taken to the centre, and then back at Caves. His usual instinct would be to snark him to hell and back for assuming he had time off, but he did have a time sensitive thing going on.

“I’ve brought my own gear, if one of the CO’s can get me set up with a room, you guys might see me like once a week.” He mocked. Caves grinned at him, and made to move toward his speeder to help unload. “Once a week? Wow _vod_ , you're going to spoil us.” Yellow made an affectionate eye roll at Caves and grabbed one of the two cases.

“Working with a _jetii_ has made my time to get you guys stuff minimal, but I’ve managed to scrounge up some of the 501’s requests as a present for dealing with me.” He tapped one of the smaller cases. “You gotta let _vod’e_ know though, I’m not going to be open to requests until this is done, my _mir’sheb_ is in a tight spot.” Caves huffed and grabbed another case to pile into his arms. He assumed it was his job to open the door then.

Nevermind, he side eye’d the _vod_ who had opened the door, probably not expecting two people to be in his way. Yellow rose a brow, and the _vod_ was polite and stepped out of the way. He hauled his gear to a supply closet Caves had led him to, and made his way to talk to a CO.

-

Rex didn’t know Yellow personally, but he sure as hell had heard of him. He was one of the _vod’e_ both dumb and smart enough to get stuff on and off on Kamino without getting caught in the process. Also, lesser known, his batchmates we’re absolutely insane and _refused to shut up._

Yellow raised a brow at the disaster on the bridge, which was thankfully where he had managed to find him. Someone screamed bloody murder and Rex winced in response.

“I need an office and a desk.” Yellow cheerfully reminded him, something shattered on the far wall. Rex was going to ignore it for now, no matter how much he wanted to go over there, slightly strangle a _vod_ and ask the _ka’ra_ why these fools we’re acting up the one day the Resolute gets a visitor. Even if it’s just a _vod_ on a particularly sensitive job.

“I’ll send you the room number later.” He groaned. He swore when he saw Fives.

-

When Yellow had finally gotten set up, only then did the rest of his batchmates on the Resolute find him. He grimaced. Spry and Pack-it had somehow found his room first and they vibrated with the power of seventeen sugar rations. 

They slammed his meagre door open and nearly leapt on him if not for the equipment behind him that _no one_ wanted to replace. Strill strolled in slightly after that, holding Gun’s collar. Whiplash and Rain had only arrived after he comm’ed them to tell them that they might as well join the mess. 

Migraine was working a shift in medical, and promised to visit him tomorrow if he could.

His tiny room was not even remotely fit for seven clones, but they made do, squeezing together as best they could on his floorspace. Pack-it had claimed the prime real estate on Yellow’s lap, and Spry, more wanting to feel him there than take up skin, had curled up behind him and closed his eyes. Rain was almost nodding off on his shoulder, and Strill was just laying on his floor, working on something on his datapad. Whiplash was laying on Strill’s legs and sighing at something. Gun was squeezing into wherever he could and moving around every five minutes until he found a spot he liked.

Caves walked in on them, raising a brow at the pile, but lifted Gun up like the madman he was and curled up next to an available shoulder. Gun went to protest, but was shooshed, He had no choice but to settle in his _vod_ ’s arms or die of natural selection with the other clones.

This was nice, and Yellow missed it.

-

Yellow really, really kriffing wished he had Quin on the comm when he told his brothers about his antics. It would have been amazing. Half of his _vod’e_ giggled and and the other half offered to commit treason to the republic for him. 

Migraine dropped in just long enough to hear about Quinlan’s flirting, offer a horrifyingly detailed threat, and throw juice at Spry. He left after a cheek peck and to tell Yellow that he _really_ would be off after this next shift, he swore. Yellow, knowing his _vod_ , severely doubted that.

A while later, the clones in his room dispersed and Yellow was finally able to take a nap.

-

He woke up just in time for a notification on his emergency comm, and a message from Quinlan, it offered no more than a series of reasonably close by coordinates and a code that authorized extraction and Yellow’s heart sank. What in Cornelian hells happened?


	11. Vencuyot - Drabble - Extraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little long for a drabble, but it works. *eyes*Admin
> 
> did some edits on 1/24/21, hopefully this is a more enjoyable read. (did I up the steam? You will never know.)

Yellow was expected to spend almost up to a month on The Resolute, finishing up a long job and giving him a chance to see his batchmates. Nursing Migraine through, his well, migraines, saving shinies from Caves, giving Gun slicing lessons. It was supposed to be a vacation while he finished something expected to go smoothly. A respite in his constant grind.

As soon as he patched Quinlan’s extraction code to The Negotiator (Which was running half of the GAR at this point.), they replied immediately, sending him new orders, effective immediately. The Resolute would end up leaving without him in the end. The equipment would be left on the ship, the CO’s and no one else would be notified of his spontaneous mission and he’d ship out with an arsenal of his choice and no real expectations to come back alive in the end.

Not even the senate could be notified in time, not without compromising something. Quinlan needed immediate extraction and they’d be able to discuss the politics when Yellow either came back with Vos or didn’t come back at all. Quinlan was a valuable operative, and it was important that his evac orders be respected. If he said that he failed, or dropped cover, it was reasonable to assume that he had done just that in the end. 

His vod’e we’re going to be confused and upset and he knew that his personal comm would likely blow up if he left his equipment out. So as he left, he turned off his personal, left it in the office and locked the door behind him. If they assumed he was working, it was better than dead. 

His armor stood out in the crowd of blue, and he ignored it as he marched. They stared at his yellow, his piercing (Plastic, with a silicone end. A metal stud was asking for trouble.), and almost most of all, his gait and the vicious lines that made up his hands and vambraces. A good chunk of his paint was delicate work, standard work, little details that made it unique.

His hands, his vambraces, they were a whirlwind. Thinner lines in more effective use, delicate work to complement the shape, the designs that we’re so purely Mandalorian it made the rest of his armor pale in comparison.

Most vod’e put their best work on their helmets, their arms, their spines. Places that had room, places that commanded attention.

Yellow’s hands would snatch any attention paid to the rest of his armor with a greedy fervor. A honor to his name, a honor to the figure that clung to him in a hurricane, refused to let him die. An honor to the Mandalorians that made up what could be called his heritage. 

He strode down the hallway, into the armory, he could only hope the spite for death, the victory that he painted into his vambraces would save him today. Would save him again.

-

Quinlan Vos would not ever, a day in his life, claim to be a lucky man.

Most force users wouldn’t even believe in the concept. They had a point going for them. He figured. 

Shadow work was dangerous, and tiring, and rarely with help other than a handler to report your information to, to make sure that if you died in the work, it wouldn’t be in vain. At some parts during the beginning of the war, he hadn’t even had that. The Jedi Order was dying, and it couldn’t afford to give him a safety net this time.

Luckily Quinlan was as good as he was at his job. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have been given a padawan, or passed his trials, or be involved in as many terrifying situations. Or, you know, alive in the first place.

When the GAR informed him that they were training an operative to serve as his permanent handler during his time working for the war effort, Quin didn’t pay much attention to it. It was just a handler, someone to record valuable information really.

He then proceeded to meet his handler in person.

He stumbled a little, not that his handler noticed. The first thing he noticed was the nail polish, bright yellow, close to the shade of Quinlan’s kiffu. His handler was a clone. Enough hair to curl, short enough to fit regs, a piercing. Dull, plastic likely. Scar running near his lips down his neck. Interesting. Weird that he didn’t bleed out.

The first thing Quinlan blurted out was about his nailpolish. He liked the shade, noticed it, and wondered how a clone got their hands on it in the first place. Clones didn’t exactly have a wage. Or even got off of their ships often enough to buy something as small and cosmetic as that.

It was horrible, Quin was being insufferably rude, but he couldn’t stop looking at his handler’s hands. They were nice hands. He definitely wore some sort of nice overcoat. And probably punched anyone who insulted the paint, based off the scars on his knuckles.

The part of Quinlan that was honest to force a kriffing loth cat wanted to take a hand, see what he could gleam from them, and then just stare until he got all the passive information he could without asking them a single question.

Instead of doing so, he accidentally ruined all his chances of getting into his handler’s good books without a month's reparations at least. He let his instincts run on the new person, and _flirted_.

-

Yellow had followed the coordinates, intent on figuring out what Quinlan had sent him after. He was clad in armor and clothing that for once, didn’t cling perfectly to him. The only thing he was wearing that was his own was his cloak, and perhaps inadvisably, his gauntlets and the gloves he wore under them.

The full helm covered up the mass produced face, and allowed him to stare all he wanted without anyone suspecting a thing. It was convenient. He was keeping it forever and no one could stop him.

When he reached the cords, he slipped into what was apparently a cantina. He had no clues after this point, but he did have credits, a foldable straw, and what some people would call the patience of a god. 

He sat down, and waited.

-

Quinlan was regretting so, so many things. A common occurrence in his line of work, expectable. But by god did he hate accidentally ruining his handler’s impression of him. Usually, handlers just dealt with him, but Yellow was different. As cheesy as that sounded. He was permanent for his time in the GAR, serious, and always on the other end of a comm.

Some of his handlers had scheduled meet-ups, but Yellow told Quinlan that he had no idea what he was doing and he was an insomniac, so if Quin needed to report something, the chances that Yellow would be able to pick up the comm was an incredibly high one. It was a terribly endearing thing to offer, and Yellow likely didn't know just how much it was appreciated.

Yellow did slicing work, Yellow kept him up to date on resources and politics, Yellow talked about his former padawans shenanigans and didn’t hesitate to relay his feelings about a situation to Quin. He was possibly the best handler Quinlan had ever had, despite him claiming inexperience. If he needed to, he was entirely fine with marrying the clone at the end of the war if that meant that he could keep the excellent sources up without some kark legalese getting in the way of employing the clones or something like that.

His handler could be Yellow Vos, royalty, if it meant that his chances of living a while longer were as high as they were now. Sure, he hasn’t died yet, but ‘Low’s information had prevented an endless amount of minor problems, and that was the type of stuff that needed to be appreciated.

It would also be hilarious for one of his friends to scream Vos only for Yellow to respond. God, they’d have to stop doing that and it’d be _great._

He leaned on a wall, smirked at the guard on the other side, and did what he did best, being the arrogant bastard everyone assumed he was.

Yellow scolded him from the mic under Quin’s dreadlocks, and he shoved down a laugh.

-

Yellow, wearing his very contraband armor, was doing his best to figure out why Quinlan had given him these specific cordinates. He hadn’t shown up yet, so either Yellow showed up early, or something had went seriously wrong.

The bartender had stopped giving him side-eye when he bought a drink, shamelessly dipped his straw in it, and pretended to be working on something. It had been about three hours, which was much longer than the standard patron.

He figured the fact that he wasn’t talking much, brought his own straw, and hadn’t made any move to make trouble made him look either very paranoid, slightly terrifying, or just tired but able to knock someone's teeth out.

His corner of the bar was silent, mostly people back from work trying to cool down. He sat alone until someone rapped their knuckles on his table, sat down, and didn’t kick their feet up but looked very much like they _would_.

Yellow was actually, in reality, working once the wait got to him, so when he was knocked out of the working trance, he was slightly confused. The sight of the person across from him made his eyes dilate, and he was glad for the helm once again. He had no idea how Quinlan located him in the armor, and he wasn’t going to ask how.

He waited for Quinlan to do anything, say something, leave. He reached forward, grasped his gauntlets, and sat there in silence for a moment. Yellow flushed when he realized how Quin found him, and was grateful for his sharp eye.

Quinlan let go after a few seconds, sitting back with his eyes closed, letting his tongue touch his lips like he was tasting something. He didn’t exactly know what was going on, and didn't dare assume.

“I wasn’t expecting extraction so quickly, but I appreciate you waiting here for me.” Quin admitted. He tugged him up, out of the booth, and for the first time in three hours, Yellow went outside. The bartender eyes him as they went, and Yellow tried to ignore the assumptions they had probably come to.

Quin tugged him down alley-ways, staying off of main roads, and only looked back at him to ask for directions towards the location of his speeder. No flirting, or awkward silence, it was a finished job, and Quinlan was just happy to be alive to meet the end of it.

Yellow mounted the speeder bike first, and scooted up to offer Quinlan the spot on the back, he took it without comment, and they made their way to the closest safe outpost. Uneventful, a thing to be thankful for.

Handler and Shadow spent the week in a much lighter air, a quieter atmosphere that would probably evaporate as soon as they got onto their next capital ship.

Yellow nudged Quinlan in the side as their transport arrived, manned by a clone Yellow or Quinlan couldn’t recall the name of. “Hey, you gonna kick Commander Bly’s ass then?”

Quin laughed, a rough thing, and his eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. “You sure bet I will ‘Low. That or atleast make sure it’s not his balance doing the bullshit.” He scoffed.

Yellow looked Quin in the eyes. “Twenty credits he spontaneously manages to walk into another wall when you walk in.” He said it seriously, but the look in his eyes was mischievous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for a fucking plot twist?


	12. Akaan'ade - Non Challenge Compliant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You really only understand this if your in the discord and have heard me rambling about the Feral Jedi verse for the longest time. Simplest point, they're feral, deviated from the republic and have accidently mostly become grey and familial. Oops.
> 
> Galdarian wasn't a thing that happened, because these guys we're messing around in the woods.

The Republic was spiteful, the Republic was resentful, and in some situations, it was resourceful. Their clone army, something that theoretically shouldn’t exist, proved that. Clones, an army of clones from a very specific Mandalorian template.

It was horrifying, something that shouldn’t exist. Initial samples were stolen, and the rest were somehow obtained consensually. They despaired to even think about it. How could a single Mandalorian even consent to the creation of what was basically an army of slaves? When it’s existence was revealed, they stormed the senate, demanding answers for their crime.

The Republic, insufferable to the end, had trapped parts of the Order in a tight situation. Some parts were cut off from the rest of the world, some parts were still furrowing over it, some parts were simply trying to desperately, ever so desperately, to stay away from the Republic trap. 

The Order was never truly divided, but it felt like it was on this. None of them supported the idea, had very vehemently protested against it, but the clones existed now, and like every other sentient in the galaxy, had a place and a right to exist. 

It was a different era, and the Order was determined to be better for all of it’s factions, all of its members, so, in the end, they couldn’t simply spirit away the army, couldn’t make it so no clone would ever need to die on a battlefield. Some wished to do so anyways.

The Republic, for the most unusual reasons, had consented to the Order interacting with them. Personally, some factions had scoffed at that. Like the Republic could ever even begin to stop them. They had temples everywhere, Kamino wasn’t far.

It was a small army, but it had its own culture and it’s own hierarchy and eventually, they had gotten insufferably attached. Not the harmful type of attachment, but attachment nonetheless. The _vod’e,_ so precious, couldn’t help but get attached in return.

Eventually, the interaction allotment was explained, not by the Republic, oh no, but the _vod’e_ themselves. They had never delved into it, never thought to contemplate it, until early on one of the younger batches, one of the last batches, had expressed curiosity about working with force users.

The Jedi once more, in force, stormed the senate.

-

The Republic, some cursed under their breath, was apparently planning for them to get attached so when they extended their offer, they’d actually take it under consideration instead of telling them to go kriff themselves and go back to their temples.

To be generals. It was horrifying, a reality many of them wanted to avoid. They had gone to Hutt space, had set up temples in the most unlivable places possible, had spent so much time immersing themselves in the force so that they _couldn’t_ be manipulated by the Republic, but here they were, considering giving up the freedom that they had worked so hard for.

Some tried to remember that it had an end date, that they wouldn’t be the antithesis of their code forever. Others had reminded themselves that the _vod’e_ deserved better. Didn’t deserve to be handed off to die. They all knew, admitted it to themselves, to the force, that with Jedi at the helm, the _vod’e_ would have higher chances of making it to see the end. 

-

Not all Jedi consented. And not all Jedi qualified. Those who we’re in training or training someone, in isolation, or simply those who didn’t have enough empathy, those who knew that they would serve the _vod’e_ poorly. A good chunk simply didn’t want to handle the pressure of lives on their shoulders.

In the end, the ratio of Jedi to vode, when put into official battalions, was still high. The Jedi had quietly prospered behind the scenes, allowing themselves connection and marriage and sometimes, in the right times, children.

As a result, battalions usually had multiple Jedi. The general was usually the one most qualified to lead larger campaigns, and the specialty squads, smaller squadrons of specific _vod’e,_ commonly had their own Jedi to guide them.

(Oftentimes, Jedi had to quietly seethe, had to ease their emotions behind closed doors. Mandalorians had broken one of their unspoken rules for the _vod’e_ to exist, and it stung.)

The Jedi didn’t express it well, having changed their code thoroughly and quickly over perhaps a hundred years, but they loved their men, and wished for their happiness. Wanted them to be able to laugh, and look past the war, think about what they’d do in the future.

The Republic may have their generals, but they couldn’t force them to act any differently than how they wished to.

-

The GAR was small, everyone knew that, the clones knew that, the Kaminoans knew that, _Jango_ , knew that. He had simply stopped supplying after some point, had left looking conflicted. They had stopped seeing baby brothers, and the toddlers we’re growing up, and no one would replace them. 

The Kaminoans viewed their work indifferent, professionally they claimed. But the GAR was such a large project, compared to their usual normal, and things we’re adjusted for them. After Jango had stopped supplying, they had changed things, stopped decommissioning almost altogether, other than the few, unfortunate _vod’e_ that had turned out.. Different due to the not entirely solid study of Jango’s DNA. Those were few and far between, and the station was always quiet for a few days afterwards. 

More ‘defects’ appeared in batches, but they simply couldn’t afford to wonder why two clones in a batch had hazel eyes, while the rest had gold. If you had behavioural problems, you had a minimum amount of therapy you needed to go through, and a follow up you couldn’t afford to not attend. Mental issues? What were you suited to then? Demolition? Bacta farming? Almost anything other than decommissioning became an option. Individuality ran rampant, and some swore that the Kaminoans just sighed and went on with their lives.

The GAR might have been small, and somewhat unprofessional, but they were lovable and proud. Strong _vod’e_ who were determined to protect the _vod’e_ that needed to stay home, couldn’t go out onto the field. (Because Kamino was home at this point.) 

Jango’s leaving was met with spite, sneers from some of the oldest batches, the ones that remembered him vividly. They blamed him for leaving their Jedi undermanned, blamed him for the _vod’e_ who couldn’t get perfected DNA, but they knew he was their Mand’alor, and they followed his orders.

The Republic was scared of their generals, the Republic treated their generals like tools, and the _vod’e_ knew, even if they didn’t like admitting it, that the Jedi had been forced into leading them, had known that that had wanted no part in any more war. They could never admit it aloud, but Jango Fett had a good idea when he proposed his idea. Even if they might have hated the man himself.

-

The clones had learned later on that what they saw wasn’t weird in the Order, but at this point, it was the first time it had come up.

General Galaar and Lieutenant Galaar were married. The _vod’e_ had never met a married couple before. God knew what the Kaminoans did for bonds. There were questions, some of them made the Lieu snort, and others made the General crash into walls. With every unconventional answer, they just resorted to asking broader questions instead of hyper specific ones.

They learned that no, the marriage was not conventional whatsoever, it was partially a joke, partially to aid whatever taxes were, and they claimed to simply be best friends.

Frankly, someone needed to tell them to get their heads checked out because best friends didn’t exchange such intimate keldabe kisses. Or cuddle. Or maybe they did and the _vod’e_ just didn’t know stuff.

Three medics in the Lts. division claimed that it was only a matter of time, so in response the ARC’s from the General’s crew had bet against them, claiming that Lance Galaar was horrifyingly oblivious and wouldn’t suspect a thing, even if they straight up told him.

That, personally, was a debate for another time. Learning about their CO’s bullshit habits was slightly more important than the fact that they were both obviously blind to emotion.

Lt. Micah Galaar might have been a healer, but they didn’t hesitate to pull some serious bantha crap when it came down to it. Their sergeant was going to beat their head in with their own _kad’au_ one of these days. They were also astonishingly bad at telling people when their temple sent them to do stuff. Oftentimes they simply came back and shrugged, pretending that they hadn’t given the shinies heart attacks.

Their husband, a Mandalorian by birth and by culture, only pretended to be better, Lance was almost worse when it came down to specific scenarios. And he didn’t exhibit nearly as much concern as he should when his spouse disappeared for a week. Lts. sergeant would also probably beat his head in too, if not for the almost ever present beskar helm. His unit thought him hilarious some days, and on others made their way to medbay to play sabacc and ignore him entirely when he got into a mood.

Their battalion both absolutely despised them and couldn’t live without them. Their bui’re just needed common karking sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your not on disc, and wanna ask about the verse, please do! I'll do my best to semi-explain.


	13. Akaan'ade - Drabble - The Sergeant's Eyes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goes off track but has plot, I swear.

Sergeant Chekar was a very constantly fed up person. Dealing with as many people as he did would make you that way. Very quickly.

The 52’nd was a highly competent battalion, with incredibly low casualties. In a report, it was an outstanding battalion, recommended for harder scenarios. Behind the scenes, It was a mitch matched mess of  _ vod’e _ with behavioural issues and half of their permanent medics had a sadistic streak. The ARC’s we’re in abundance, and while useful, fought extensively. They couldn’t tell if they wanted to love the medics or slit their throats while they slept.

Half of the battalion had a sabacc addiction, enough so that there was a clone that’d paint you custom card sets if you got them the paint and maybe a few credits. It depended. If it wasn’t sabacc, it was betting. Anything from next deployments to General Lance’s next emotional fuck-up.

Commander Hyacinth was the type of person that you wanted to shove up against a wall but also choke out while baring your teeth. He was charismatic, charming, but he made fun of Chekar’s squad once and that was enough for him to want to throw him. He thought because he had a bunch of ARC’s to push around that he was better than Chek. Jokes on him, medics could pull rank on his ass.

To most people, they appeared almost completely like the explementary battalion they we’re expected to be. Wearing their purple paint with pride. And on the battlefield, they  _ were _ . It just so happened that all the drama happened behind closed doors like good clones. And by god did they have a lot of fucking drama.

The 52’nd had a mighty high percentage of defects, when Chekar was decanted, it was less common, but with every batch it seemed to become a higher rate. He himself had to go a few therapy sessions, and was still removed from the commander track. It irked on him, but watching Hyacin scramble to do his job effectively made up for it.

Colors, height, he was even pretty sure someone had vitiligo somewhere around here. But mostly, it was emotional imbalances. A few more serious cases, clones with anxiety and depression we’re medicated, because the GAR needed every  _ vod’e _ they could. Some of them would catch Kaminoans cursing out Jango sometimes, but never, ever, them.

The 52’nd was a mess who lived in coexistence, watching the assignments go by. The mourned together, they painted together, they scandalized other battalions together. A few of them had to go to medbay to pop a few pills in the morning, and that was okay.

Some clones switched pronouns, couldn’t stand the sight of veins, dyed their hair eccentric colors, according to rumor the Kaminoans originally wouldn’t stand stuff like that, but at this point people could find the apparently perfected species drinking caf straight out of pots and hissing that they didn’t sign up to raise a bunch of teenagers.

Their training was a rough patch, something they stumbled through until some Mandalorians offered their service. It wasn’t perfect, but they were effective and most of them got additional training from their Jedi anyways. As a result, the  _ vod’e  _ knew curses from all around the galaxy, and also got validated a lot.

When Chek had graduated, one of the field medic trainers had picked him up and cried into his shoulder. He desperately hoped she never did that again, it was embarrassing, even though the rest of his graduating squad got the same treatment.

Serving under the Lieutenant was pretty different than Kamino. Harder for one. Lt. Galaar was also a hazard to society, and he dreaded the day he had to give them up. They mostly did medical, due to their knighting trials, they explained, but when needed, would go onto the field and absolutely  _ tear  _ through droves of droids like they we’re taking a stroll. Chekar desperately wanted to know why they didn’t send them out more.

He had learned a lot under his Lt. stuff about them, stuff about the Jedi in general. Micah Viern would have been raised as a commando as their husband had been, but instead decided to study at the Kelbade temple when their force sensitivity got out of hand and almost destroyed their cousin’s hand.

They used a single bladed  _ kad’au _ , almost went into the career path of a smith or shadow, and had only started studying medicine three years before they had become a Galaar. That was the same night the 52’nd learned a weird amount about traditional Jedi weddings. Most of that night was betting. Lots of betting. And contraband alcohol.

Their Jedi didn’t speak much, mostly shrugged and signed when they were too tired to muster up their vocal cords. Their husband mostly spoke for them. 

Chekar had to admit, just a tiny bit, that he didn’t like the General. For personal reasons. They knew little about him, he led mostly ARC’s, and he had married the Lieu, and took him off the market. Apparently as a joke. He wasn’t into his CO, but he knew some clones we’re. Personally, Micah was probably considered their _ buir.  _

They took care of everyone, worked desperate hours to save as many as possible, and they made themselves uncomfortable for the clones convenience, forcing themselves to speak constantly. Chek was seen as the aggressive officer that’d pull rank over you in a heartbeat. Another defective product who couldn’t tell the difference between love and hate sometimes. He both couldn’t stand them sometimes, and wanted to wrap them in a blanket and never let go.

He also desperately, desperately loved his brothers. Like so many of the clones. Almost every batch had a brother with a defect. Sometimes something small like lighter hair, other times, worst of times, they needed surgery to function. The Kaminoans we’re the best cloners in the galaxy however, and refused to give their work up to the  _ Ka’ra _ early. 

-

In another universe, there would have been four times as many of them. There would have been an  _ ori'vod _ named Boba, the Alphas would have been meaner to them, knowing that there were plenty of standards to go around, and they would never, ever, have considered the Kaminoans their  _ Cabur’e _ . Battalions would have been large things, manned by singular jedi. There would have been padawans in the war. And in the end, the clones would have killed them.

Here, the  _ vod’e _ slept peacefully, the Alphas we’re desperate  _ ori’vod _ , fiercely protective, the Kaminoans saved hundreds of them, bared their teeth at fate for them. And the Jedi, the Jedi thrived. In communities, and families, everywhere possible for them to live.

Here, there was no order sixty-six. No chips to control their actions. Instead, the  _ vod’e _ we’re independent, and would follow their  _ mand’alor’s _ last order when the time came, spiteful towards him until the end.

And the Republic would burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, on another note, Chekar can't tell if he wants Hyacinth to fuck him or for him to d i e.


	14. Akaan'ade - Drabble - Vheh'ad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry.

Commander Hyacinth was scowling. That didn’t sound right. Never did. Commander Hyacinth was charismatic and efficient and didn’t _scowl_ . Scowling, complaining, tossing _vod’e_ on their ass in partial aggression, partially concern. That was Sergeant Chekar’s job.

But Sergeant Chekar was apparently too busy breaking the karking regs to give a kriff about what Hyacinth had to resort to. It irked on him, and Hyacinth very clearly did not stop marching down the hallway, following the sound of confused and cooing _vod’e._

Scouts and medics alike jumped out of his warpath, and by the time he had made it, a few curious brothers had started to hesitantly trail behind him, wanting to know what had made the Commander so upset.

He very clearly slammed the door open, glared at the _vod’e_ in front of him and they mostly cleared the path. He nudged stranglers out of the way, and went to stand in front of the two clones taking up one of the highly uncomfortable couches in this rec room.

Torch glared at him, holding a singular finger up to their lips. Sitting at the base of the couch instead of on it. They we’re leaning against another _vod’e’s_ leg. Hyacinth, despite being accused otherwise, was not infact, dumb enough to ask for his face to get torn off if he approached another foot towards them.

Instead of getting mauled by Torch again, he carefully maintained his distance, and eyed up Chekar. No wonder Torch was being a pissy bitch, Sergeant Chekar was asleep for once, a soft expression on his face, one hand tangled in the fur of a very regs illegal cat.

The scrappy thing didn’t look like any loth-cat he had ever seen, and it probably more closely resembled a spukama, with it’s black markings and clever golden eyes, alongside the face shape that blended into the rest of its body, instead of the big and circular shapes of loth’s.. But spukama’s we’re Cornelian, pitch black and did _not_ tolerate as many humans as this one was.

It purred, kneaded it’s black ‘boots’ into Chek’s lap and the man in question sighed in his sleep.

Torch was going to go for his legs if he decided to mess that up. He knew. Their snarl was already splitting the faulty pigmentation on their face. And Hyacinth, now knowing the situation, tried to drop the Chekar vibes and put an unbothered look on his face.

The, god only knew what _Torch_ did, very clearly didn’t take it, and very pointedly stared at the door he had come in, and back at him.

He was going to leave or Torch was going to make him leave. That was the message he was getting here. Too bad for Torch. The cat needed to be reported, and as soon as he got into that hallway, General Galaar was getting commed.

He obliged, smug, and didn’t flinch at the door slamming shut after him. Little noise, little extra fanfare than their usual. When the hell was the last time Chek slept for his squad to hover so much and not even report the cat?

He was annoyed, but his expression didn’t change. Chek _did_ need to sleep. What Chek didn’t need to do was break the regs again. He was a sergeant, and he had a reputation to uphold to the shinies.

He would’ve gone straight to the general, but the Lieutenant would likely want to know about Chek, so he begrudgingly changed course and marched to the office that the Lieu was usually killing themself with paperwork in.

He knocked, polite as ever, and a bleary face stared back at him barely seconds later. Damn force shenanigans. It was remarkable what differences the two Galaar’s had when it came to the Order.

Their black hood was askew, showing off more of the soft red hair than they usually did. The ends disappeared into what was clearly a modified clone gorget, painted with delicate details done in 52’nd purple. They had one hand perched on the doorframe and blinked up at him.

“Lieutenant, Sergeant is in recreation room two, with a rather illegal cat of some sort.” He greeted. The Lieu tilted their heads, and mimed _something_ in galactic sign. God, he can’t believe he was saying this, but Torch would have _actually_ been useful for once.

He stepped out of the doorway anyways, when the Lieu made their way out. Considering how tired they looked, he dubiously thought that they wouldn’t get half the way before they fell face down on the floor and some poor clone found them and had to pry them up.

He really should’ve reported to the General in person, but the Lieu was literally wobbling, and it was concerning. Reminded him too much of the new batch of shinies messed up after their first panel of bloodwork.

God, he hated Chek, he was even using his dumb medical references. He grimaced.

He carefully put one arm under the Lieu, and on his shoulder. This would be faster. At this point he just wanted someone to chew out the cat. 

Once they had stumbled all the way there, Hyacinth rapped on the door, and the clones on the other side opened it begrudgingly. They almost shut it when they saw his armor, but paused at the Lieu that he was very clearly only keeping up out of pure willpower.

He was allowed to march into the rec room, but Torch zeroed in on him and strided up to steal the Lieu. There. He was done here. Someone could file a report in the morning and he could just _die_ now.

Chek had appeared to have opened his eyes at some point, and a clone hissed when they noticed, but Chek spotted him, continued to pet the still purring cat in his lap, and, if he hadn’t known better about his condition, very seriously informed him. Like a drunk _vod_ who treated common information like deep dark secrets.

“Her name is Penelope, and you can pry her from my cold dead arms.” He said it solemnly. The cat wiggled, showing off her shiny white coat with it’s pitch black stripes. He still had no idea what it was, to be fair.

  
Hyacinth looked down at him dryly, shoving down a sigh. “Sure _cyar'ika_ , whatever you say.”

\----

\+ Bonus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling is mostly a joke here, but no other damn clone in the entire GAR would have the audacity to use pet names on Chek.
> 
> Yes, their relationship is still mostly spite, but the thought running through their heads is a bit like: he's got like. a little good and if he offered I'd probably fuck him.
> 
> Penelope was the product of me being sad on discord.


	15. Haast - Viern Family Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you notice the little stuff, kudos. This is a rough draft of _one lineage _.__

Love them and despair.

Point out your favorite details in the comments, I'll tell you if it was random, deliberate, or _very_ deliberate.


	16. AFLM - 'Lightsaber' - Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me earlier, so here it is.

Lightsabers in a fae verse would be weird. I've already classified the force more as a symobite than anything, and magic as something to inherit, or to have little or much of depending on your species, court, or place of living.

I imagine focuses are many and varied, but pieces of clear crystal tend to work well. Not everyone can have magic, so I can't really have the traditional light sword without some wrangling and or a lot of tech they don't have.

Jedi likely form their swords after they find a style like like, and a good focus. Every knight in that temple knows how to smith.


	17. AFLM - Folktales - Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I'll add the accompanying drabble later.

I'm testing something out instead of my tumblr, so let me know if I need to switch back.

You cannot, under any circumstance tell me that a woman with a millennia under her belt doesn't have at least three folktales and depictions. I kinda wanna draw another more fae-ey one, so if you wanna rec anything for that, I am open.

The crown of branches, the cloak of feathers, the _bes'kad_ and the necklace of beads was a very omitted truth. First things first, their was no _bes'kad,_ two, she did not have a cloak of feathers, it was just some lingering ones from a bad shift and a half cloak (as was customary of the time), The crown of branches was, in reality, pretty close. But they ended up there very much accidently. The beads?? Offerings for tiny rabid cousins to paint.

Actual folktales? Who knows. She just walks out of the woods sometimes and you don't question it.


	18. AFLM - Rhys - Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herrah and Hakim's momma, who spends most of her time uh. Honestly we have no idea.

Momma, please elaborate.

I originally was gonna do something quick and dumb, to kinda show off the dynamic she and her mate have whenever Rhys ends up trying to crawl inside a window. This appeared instead.

The feathers momma wears are from Herrah and Hakims first molt uwu. (Question them, and You Will Die)

Rhys was a big part of the Mandalorian wars of the time, and spent a heartbreakingly long amount of time separated from her family until she mustered up the audacity to train her long distance flight so that she could sneak from the war camps to sneak a peck or two before she got called out again.

After this particular war ended, Rhys ended up MIA. Herrah, these days, doubts that her _buir_ was killed, but she had no evidence to prove otherwise. She was one of dozens to be reported MIA or KIA a week after the war had ended. Few know what happen, but some suspect _Kry'tsad._

_Here's the rework, I spent far too long on._


	19. AFLM - Poison - Drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herrah is terrifying.
> 
> (I blame discord for Pre, and the Witcher for the topic.)

Pre was fascinated. And horrified, somewhere back in the part of his brain that had long since gone numb. Only years of experience had kept his fork from digging into his plate and making it shatter under his grip.

The clanhead’s guard had been lifting bites of poison laced pasta to their mouth for nearly an hour now. Taking bites in between scathing remarks and suppressed laughter. Every other person that had eaten their portion from the same pot had retired early, citing other matters, and in one case, dropping their pride and announcing that they may have been poisoned outright. That had nearly ended quite badly.

The Vierns had been placed rather close to the Vizlas, in comparison to nearly everyone else, which seemed logical enough in the eyes of the general public. In truth, it would likely be a grim mistake, considering how their alliances had fallen during the silent war.

This Viern guard, who’s profile he couldn’t quite make out to be any discernible figure, made Pre absentmindedly think back to the reasons the two settlements had intermarried in the first place. The guard had stood up, and Pre slowly stiffened, fear of his gaze being known straightening his spine, and loosening the grip on the poor fork.

The guard passed the edge of their group, and made for the table in the back. The first plates had been set and filled when they had arrived, as a sign of respect, but for anyone who’s appetite ran stronger, there was extra available.

Pre laid down his fork, exhaled, and internally cursed.

-

That was their first meeting, while Pre was still ignorant. He had not directly asked his older clansmen, but had heavily stressed on the guard in conversation, fishing for details, a name, a cousin, anything really.

He was not enamoured with the failed target, he’d hiss, shooting down his own cousins' inquiries before they could dare to assume otherwise. They would laugh at him, quoting his quickness to reply as evidence enough.

The most information he had acquired had come from whatever things his father had deigned to tell him, or his complaints after walking out of councils he was not yet allowed inside of. Tor knew much, it seemed. 

Pre pressed, upped his training, tried to prove himself worthy of sitting in on those talks. By the time he’d be allowed in, they would have long since moved on from the failed attempt to poison that Viern. For this matter, it wasn’t just that privilege he was after. He _needed_ to be the next Vizla heir. The identity of that frankly terrifying person would be a pleasant bonus.

He was able to ignore it for a month, two or so, before the next feast was called by the recognized _Mand’alor_. Pre wasn’t sure what to expect. For all that he knew, that guard could have been assassinated in between the feasts.

He didn’t keep his hopes up, and he was sure that his clansmen hoped for the opposite. The Viern head was paranoid, and the guard changing was likely enough. On the other hand, if they could survive that, then the head might be keeping them around. 

It was in the downtime, filled with anticipation and a gnawing dread, that someone had finally briefed Pre on what he was going into, and who the targets would be for the night.

Pre had been declared the next heir, and he almost assumed that it’d be another plot, another cover. He had walked into that councilroom arrogant, and had emerged pale under his helmet.

-

The guard, the clan head, the living storm herself had sat herself adjacent to the clan head, her twin and eternal counterpart. _Ka’ra_ save them.

Pre’s heart leapt to his throat, and he was grateful that he had not yet decided to take off his _buy’ce_ as he watched the newly named enigma. She was as healthy as the last time she had walked into the halls of the _Mand’alor_ , and his new position higher up at the table enabled his ability to analyze her ever more clearly. 

She wasn’t affected at all, no shivers, no lingering effects or even signs of antidote. Her skin was sunkissed, bronze and scarred like many of her clansmen, too lax with their beskar as they were. His own clan head sneered.

Pre knew what would happen this time, and he had to be snapped out of it to make sure that he would be eating some of the spread himself. It would be rude otherwise, and the _Kry’tsad_ status, former or otherwise, had already sat them on unsteady sands.

He picked at his food, but his attention was focused on the proceedings themselves, and on that dark-haired Fae roaring with laughter, prompted by someone at her side. Knowing what to look for had made the sword set out in front of her all the more obvious. Ancient, wicked, and most definitely somewhat enchanted. A gift from their ancestors, a general of a name Pre could not recall.

It was also incredibly indicative of the clan heads identity, and Pre absolutely hated himself for not noticing the blade the last time they had both sat in these halls. Her brother bore their crown of feathers and ash, and he figured that the Fae killing wood would draw more stares than another sword.

He shoved another bite of perfectly untainted food into his mouth. Not everyone else would be as lucky tonight.

-

The clan heads were unaffected, and Hakim, delicately picking at his perfectly untouched food, made no move to halt his sister. She drank no wine, a reasonable enough thing to do, but ate as much as the last time, slowly but surely cleaning off a plate that could never be used again, lest anyone die.

Pre watched, as enamored as last time, as she went home, unaffected. She returned the next day, perfectly healthy, and smiling a dark and sharp thing, probably knowing exactly what she had ingested the day before.

The awe drowned out the possibility in his mind that she had somehow also figured out _who_ had poisoned the feast she had indulged in. Perhaps he wasn’t attracted to Herrah before, but some feats of strength had to be recognized, truly, and it’d be a dishonor to ignore this particular one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I really did make Pre go 'brain empty' like that didn't i.  
> Herrah dresses ver modest, and twin clan heads are about as common as a Star Dragon. Pre cannot be fully blamed for the reasonable assumption that she's a guard.
> 
> Vizla War Council: ...Okay so it didn't work. How about?? We try again?? But more.
> 
> Pre: I once watched you eat poisoned food once and go back for seconds and I'd just like to profess my undying love.  
> Herrah: ..Who are you again?  
> -  
> 'For all that he knew, that guard could have been assassinated in between them.'  
> Herrah, looming on her throne of Political Importance and General Badassery: Are You Sure About That.
> 
> This is not the first time Herrah's been targeted via her food, and not the last. The most recent targeted her newly declared family. and that.. did not end well for anyone involved. Except for maybe Plo's puppy crush.


	20. Haast - Viern Politcs (And other boring topics.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This'll be updated often, and with increasingly larger amount of crack as my sanity steadily decreases.

This is going to be sloppy, but it’ll do it’s job.

Kael Viern was an absolutely fucking ancient Taung, he earned his last name in battle, killing a noteable Jedi in the second battle. Parjai'ram'ikad. He had one pair of twins before he died, and shifted into an Ornimegalonyx. This shift hasn’t been spotted since the mythosaurs still walked.

His twins were Lurien and Vespa. Lurien had married a Vizla, but kept their name. Together, they sired three children. One of which was claimed as Heir Vizla. Haeth, their second-born, sired three children who would continue the line of Lurien. Lilta had one foundling, Moxla.

Vespa sired no children, but claimed an heir, who would become the first Armorer of the Viern line. The Armorers marriages have not been recorded on the tapestry, as is tradition. The First, in particular, sired two children. Tarre and the Second.

-After Tarre’s birth, another feud breaks out, and the Vierns, as small a clan as they are, bare their teeth when one clan in particular severs the Line.

Generations are lost, but family tapestries are recorded and stored. The main line never particularly recovers, and is finally fixed 2000 yrs from the start of the timeline, by Rylan Viern, who would come to be known as The Weaver. They severed what is broken, and realign the Vierns back into power.

One Viern, in a fit of possible insanity, ends up the spouse of the Mand’alor.

This causes unprecedented issues, and the spite of Vierns everywhere when Jango Fett is born, and recorded on the Main Line Reborn. As well as the  _ millions of children he is responsible for.  _ Rumor has it to this day that he refuses to step inside the ancestral hall in fear of death.

(The clones, not golems, nor halflings in their eyes, are fully encouraged to hate their  _ buir  _ for being a bastard man.)

Rylan sires five children. One of which goes on to sire a number of their own, one of which will sire the next pair of Twins.

Rhysalis, apart from sneaking off to elope in the woods with the threat of another great war on horizon, and apart from having two of the most chaos attracting twin daughters physically possible, is also known as a credible war hero. Or nightmare. It really depends on who you ask.

After the last battle, Rhysalis lays down their sword, and goes on to a place unknown. (She’s also the cousin of Jaster Meerel, who knew.)

-

To be edited once my headache goes away, enjoy the Viern shenanigans for now.


	21. The November Fic That Never Actually Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad, for not actually writing for the one month I said I wasn't going to write for some reason. I also dropped off the face of the earth for two months, so this is also a bribe??
> 
> This is an old draft-outline that I never wrote in the end. Warning for crack and unexplained gaps where I alone can fill in pure bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HONESTLY JUST COPIED AND PASTED THIS SO IT WOULDN'T DIE ALONE. I'M SORRY.

#  **Honestly Just Hype:**

Punt that little green man, dewit.

First one, (maybe the last one, who knows.): We start a siege on rarepair hell. Plo/Mace. This. This will be fine.

News flash, it’s not fine. The word count.. Will suffer.

Me, trying to write a oneshot: Well okay-  _ five thousand words later  _ I Wonder, How Many AU’s Can I Shove In This Little Box.

Me: Wow wouldn’t it be horrible if someone shoved a Feral Jedi AU into this amirite??

#  **Actual Planning:**

Basically, the basic of basic rundowns is that this is somehow Plo/Mace, one or both of them run over Yoda with a speeder and get really fuckin nervous about it

There is not body, for he be the force, and eventually yoda’s ghost just pops up to hand out unwanted advice, which is, not cool my man

This is possibly a feral jedi au, which would probably work better than my initial planning.

At some point, Obi-Wan gets informed and he kinda has a tiny little internal breakdown. 

As per the request of ner Mand’alor, Jinn dies stupidly offscreen so Obi-Wan just.. Kinda gets worse.

If I want it more cracky, I could say that Obi’s lineage dying via ship or speeder accident is Common. 

Fox: So hey, when are you telling the rest of the order that you killed the grandmaster?

-rundown supper fast so i don’t fuck up

Goes straight into the issue, maybe Plo leaning over and grimacing at Yoda’s robes or some shit, stuff like that.

If it’s just Plo, he goes to Mace and tells him about it because it’d be Awkward otherwise oof mace resorts to finding a handy place to store yodas sabre and postponing that mission report bc he's a nice husband

-uuuuuhh filler

Nervous convo about nervos things

..clones

Yeah those we need to address those

fuck can you just imagine the number of clones that just- give their sinceserest ‘i’m sorry for your losses’ and the jedi are just like

Yeah well don’t worry about it that’s just what happens when you run over an space frog, he’ll be back in like a month or so idk

Clones are just like, ‘wack’ but accept it because the jedi are Fuckin Weird and god forbid they understand shit

In reality the jedi are completely fucking over it, like, no grudges whatsoever (he was old, this was gonna happen at some point) exCEPT FOR MACE AND PLO who are so fucking NERVOUS lkke my god dude. Some of the employes just, do not miss Yoda at all, someone jokingly contemplates sending the driver of the speeder a gift basket

(Plo dies internally)

The only other person really concerned about it is obi, obi dragged the mandos into the hole w/ his stress, so someone needs to fix the anxiety. Food only goes so far.;

Mace does it, because he needs a goddam break, obi admits that quiggles death via airlock just made him very concerned about accidents with his lineage, he’s not even concerned about himself, just dooku and his children for fucks sake

Mace recognizes he cannot be the proper comfort so plo gets sent in with hot chocolate and obi just cries a little and it’[s all okay

(sike the community will never trust me again.)

Mace and plo decide to eventually publish the incident report in the archives so ms jocasta doesn’t beat their asses even if what they did was technically illegal as all fuck

I.. don’t actually remember how this ends but fox gets the very last word with no exceptions

#  **V1. This May End Badly:**

Ahhhhhhhh fucK

I REMEBER THAT I HATE THIS

SHIT SHIT SHIT

Plo hunched over, and cast his eyes down at the roughspun robes lying haphazardly on one of the carved out trails. No blood, no body. He straightened up to his full height and went to go retrieve one of the saddlebags on his speeder.

He glanced back, at the scene perhaps ten or so feet away from where he had braked. He cringed, and made his way back over, bag in hand. The robes were short, suited to someone of a much smaller height, and Plo carefully folded them before storing them away. The robes pockets were empty, with no lightsaber to be found.

Plo sighed, and went off into the foliage surrounding the rough speeder path. He could collapse later, for now, he needed to hide the evidence.

-

Mace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..I may have been both drunk and sleep deprived.


	22. Akaan'ade - (WIP) Drabble - Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow!! A WIP!! Let's pretend I don't have sixty of those hiding away!!
> 
> Anyways, my computer decided to actually work, so here's something to sate you guys as I desperately attempt to figure out what I was supposed to be writing this month.

Chekar watched Micah sulk away, spitting something about political canadities being housed in Sundari. He quirked a brow, confused but somewhat amused by the out of character rambling, and then looked back at his general. Lance was wincing, you could see it in his posture.

He wasn’t entirely expecting to see that out of him. Lance exhaled, looked at Chek, and visibly slumped.

“The political scene back home isn’t amazing right now, we’ve tried to circumvent some of it with the temple exchanges, and trying to open up the borders on Concordia, but the government is growing out of sorts again, and everyone has a different view-point.” Lance paused, tilted his helmet so he could see over Chekar’s shoulder, and then back again. “Don’t tell Micah I told you this, but I think the Duke is trying to stage another excuse for an exodus.”

Chekar, truthfully, didn’t understand every half-word out of his mouth. His confusion must have shown, because Lance lost the intense posture, and relaxed somewhat. The general still tilted his helmet at him, as if amused. “You don’t know the political scene back in the Mandalorian system, right?”

Lance had hit it right on the head. Chek grimaced. Lance waved him off, and shifted into another posture. Chekar didn’t quite know this one, but some of his ARC’s might. “Well, basically, Mandalore was in a civil war, still is, if you listen to the fanatics. They were separated into factions, figures were dying left and right, and _Haat Mando’ade_ were being shuffled out of the scene, exiled, but not being declared _Dar’manda_.”

Lance folded his arms. “Here’s where it gets weird. The Republic was being called on for aid, to get rid of some rebelling and apparently pillaging _Mando’ade_. This was eventually figured out to be a _Kyr’stad_ plot. So, the Republic sent aid, the _hut’unn_ of a governor accepted it, and then proceeded to direct them to a party of _Haat_ , including _te Mand’alor_. But, apparently, the _Haat_ had run into one of the only groups of people they hadn’t managed to bed or kill as of yet.” 

Lance scoffed, and Chek didn’t need him to continue to understand exactly who that particular statement implied.

The general apparently knew he’d get the reference, and immediately carried on without further clarification. “So when the Jedi had strolled up also seeking aid, the _hut’unn_ was torn between helping the group here to kill honorable _Mand’alor_ and his hunting party, or the Republic's least favorite beings in the galaxy.” The next words were dripping with sarcasm. “You can imagine how that went in the end.”

Lance made another one of his wide, sweeping gestures. “So now we have Mandalorian Jedi, and the civil war is trying to broil up. Micah has started thinking like a Viern again, and is trying to convince their family to make some sort of move, but they’re also busy enough here as is. I think they’re looking up too high, but I don’t think I can speak with my family so low on the food chain in comparison.” Lance huffed.

Chekar didn’t understand politics, but clearly this was somehow, somewhat relevant. He hesitated before speaking. “I thought Micah wasn’t talking to their family?” Lance’s helmet snapped in his direction, before the man opened his mouth again. “Oh _ka’ra_ no, the _buyacir_ wouldn’t let anyone of her _aliit_ go if she could help it. They might look solitary from a distance but I’m not sure Viern’s can actually stay away from each other before turning into _nayc’runi_ husks.” Lance’s voice was filled with scorn, and an odd sort of endearment. 

Lance was still in a lecturing mood, so Chek figured it was safe enough to ask. “What do you mean by.. The Viern’s being higher up on the food chain?” He really didn’t have a clue, and his hesitation was probably made clear with the verbage he used alone, if not his tone.

Lance was easing into a more normal posture before he heard the comment, and promptly straightened up into his full height again. “You know what, I’m far too tired to give a full explanation, all you need to know is that the Viern’s are more powerful than the average _Mando’ad_ , and far more than my simple clan of six. They’re in the leagues of Fett’s and Vizla’s _verd’ika_ , and it’s best you don’t forget that.” Lance sounded tired, and let that almost twisted endearment loose.

Chekar sputtered, swallowed, before saying something he’d probably regret later.”You sound so aggressive towards them,” Chek probably sounded defensive, and maybe he was.”-..but, you married Micah, right?” Lance was stiff, and a familiar feeling crawled up Chekar’s throat. He wanted to run, he had obviously, so clearly made a mistake, hit something he couldn’t fix.

Chek’s feet slid backwards without his real, conscious, knowing, and the t-visor of Lance’s helmet followed his eyes as he ever so slowly inched toward the closest door. The Mando’ad suddenly broke the stare, and looked down at the ground. “That’s what _di’kut verde_ in love do _Chekar_.” His name sounded raw, twisted with an accent in his mouth. “You don’t let a _riduur_ like that get away.”

Lance had stepped away, and Chek heard the door open and close on his way out. His heart pounded, and Chekar tried to forget the fear. God, he hated politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to write this, so it's just the latter half of a chapter. Anyways, it features some of my differences, which is fun!
> 
> Also, I made some slang and nicknames so everything would be suitably dramatic.  
> Nayc'runi is something among the lines of souless, lit: No soul.  
> Te isn't a spelling error, it's mando'a for The. I think this just proves they don't like to waste words lol.  
> Buyacir is a mean/endearing nickname for everyone's favorite space aunt. (Herrah) lit: Storm  
> Chekar is accented when Lance says it because it's Mando'a! Lit: To stab, to shiv.


	23. Extended Universe Meta - Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ..TW

This isn't really an actual chapter, but it is technically information concerning things. I highly advise that you skip this if you don't want to hear me talk about character death.

The thing is, I spend an awful lot of time thinking up ideas and meta, specifically for my Feral Jedi verse, since it is my pride and joy. But that typically leads into other topics, and most of this never ends up getting written down, because it takes entirely too long to turn on my computer and get into google docs. I really wish I could just turn this part of my brain off sometimes.

Whenever I make a fic, eventually, I figure out how canon might align with my plot deviations, and the variants that might occur. Like Herrah's knee. Theoretically, that could've just been a flesh wound, and healed just fine, but I could have also theoretically severed the tendon, and made it so that Herrah would have to consider a prothesis or a new career. I actually haven't decided what I'm doing with that yet, but any choice I make involves a recovery period.

Usually, I'll run through the entire timeline established in canon, since I work with the Clone Wars an awful lot, most of my characters are dead of old age by the time Rey rolls around. Clones, even earlier due to the accelerated aging. I can't exactly tell death and age to go kark itself can I?

OC's that interact with the main cast usually don't have the best fates, but I try. Now, in true morbid fashion, I'm going to just present a list of the deaths I've thought about. Cheers.

Herrah, very much uncomfortably, outlives most of the Viern clan. Y'know, because of that fun Mandalorian purge the Empire rolled in with. She's off planet when most of them die. All of the niblings except Nilin manage to escape with other fleeing Mando'ad. Nilin dies while hiding all of their siblings. Herrah survives up until the bounty on her head grows to the point where it really isn't safe to do anything but to give up the Way. Obi-Wan receives her gauntlets, and undergoes the canonical isolation. This time around, he spends more time with Luke, because his buir's habits rub off on him. 

Obi dies the same way in canon, and passes down Herrah's gauntlets to Luke. This causes a ripple, because, what'dya know, Boba the clone just happens to recognize them. This changes his role in the Star Wars narrative and is one of the bigger effects.

Lance dies in Micah's arms. His chestplate was back in his room, and he was going back to change before the 52nd got rerouted. Order 66, despite the Jedi, still gets activated. Micah is hunted. Micah burns their robes on planet, and puts their kute on. They pull a Quinlan and disappear into wild space. No clone is ever able to find them except the last, who witnesses a being of pure light _scream_.

Yellow's death isn't decided, because it could be a tragedy or a failure. The only Jedi they are ever around is the one who they (begrudgingly) love the most. I'm not sure how it'd turn out if Quinlan had to kill 'Low. Or, maybe in another time, they could be another Rex. They could have their chip removed, but that wouldn't remove the guilt and emotion, and the fear to have to kill one's brothers, to hide for the rest of their days. But maybe, they could hide together, and maybe, they could find friends.

Torch dies in one of the last battles of the war. Their brothers mourn. They were so close, so close. They promise to never forget the commando. They all end up failing.

Chekar dies in service to an Empire he never believed in, never wanted to be in. Hyacinth is always still just that far above him, hands stained with Mandalorian blood.

Migraine and Caves, Gun and Rain, all of Yellow's batchmates die on the ship they loved, trying to kill their commander and captain. 

Kisa dies baring her teeth, never one to step back down from a challenge, Tamlin, wild song and spring blood, dies alone, alone but never forgotten. Venat lies in a pool of blood not his own, and weeps for the days Hakim and Herrah were there to chase his terrors away. He lives.


	24. Allit - Drabble - Color (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on my tablet, right before I went to work, it WILL have errors.

*I really need to actually find a transcript of this scene, or something.

Boba Fett might've been Jango's son, but he was always a clone. He heard the same rumors as everyone else. His.. Cousin? Aunt? Great aunt? Herrah had been terrorizing Kamino. Of course he didn't know her name at the time, but it happened with time.

That and that she had left notes on their door. Jango typically took one look at them and sighed. she had written them in Mando'a and somewhat more awkward Basic, as if they needed the help. Well, Boba didn't know Mando'a, but the notes weren't exactly targeted towards him, were they?

The point was, eventually, Boba finally met more of his family, extended or not. Herrah, who was frighteningly similar to his buir at times, and her kid, who had a mop of ginger hair and paler skin than Boba was used to. That one, Jango watched with dark eyes.

The point was, Boba knew her beskar. Knew her beskar like Yellow did, who could probably pin her out in a hurricane. Did, almost. Boba really thought it was a shame no one thought to consider training Yellow as a sniper. But that just reminded him that Yellow was probably dead in an unmarked grave somewhere, same as so many of the other clones.

He has heard things of Herrah, after Jango died. Was killed. Being shoved into the world was a good way to learn lessons he might necessarily not, but hearing some of his great aunt's crimes wasn't exactly one of his favorite experiences. She was like her father in more way than one, and it made him wonder if she had someone that looked past her crimes, who didn't see a number.

He was infuriatingly familiar with the concept of living as a number.

People had been trying to kill Herrah since she debuted. Even after her bounty dropped after the initial incident, even after she pledged fealty to the Bounty Hunter Guild, people still eyed up her helmet and wondered how much they'd get for putting her down.

When the Empire rose up, one of the first things to change was the number of zeroes in Herrah's bounty. Her head used to be a matter of pride, of proving themselves capable of taking down a full fledged Mando'ad when they were supposed to be powerful. Now, it was greed.

Her bounty had attention, it always did, but the big guns, the ones actually capable of possibly surviving her in the first place, hadn't taken notice until the Empire's contribution. Hell, some of those Hunters could have been considered her friends, wouldn't have even considered killing her because she was charming, and didn't have enough credits on her to be worth loosing an ally like that.

Boba himself had considered it once, but that seemed all too much like blatant betrayal, and he had enough of that in his life. To get one of Herrah's gauntlets in this day and age was considered worthy of awe. One of her only identifiers from most other Mandalorians. Only her helmet or legitimate corpse would be worth more. It was the same with Jango, and it made him sick to his stomach.

His connection to her never aired in the first place, his status as a clone was very rarely aired at all. Even if someone could figure out that the Fett's had Viern blood, it'd be worth nothing more than a fun fact to most people.

As far as people were concerned, Boba might have blood of a nearly extinct clan, but that was nothing new. He was a Fett. They had never even considered that he might have even the slightest connection to one of his last known relatives.

He really didn't, truly, but sometimes he felt like he did, mistook the shape of her jaw and her pigmentation for that of father on the karked holos in bars. Even better quality ones weren't much help, she still looked like she could be Jango Fett when he was too drunk out of his mind to realise otherwise.

Half of the galaxy probably knew the color of her gauntlets, but they didn't know what he knew. Didn't know the meaning they had in a dead culture, or the exact shade. He could trace them in his sleep, could spot them like Caves could spot a storm. He was unaltered, but he was still a clone of the greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy. Or at least, he was until someone else stole that title.

Han Solo has good money on his head, and bringing it back would bring more business aswell, it really was a win-win. He almost felt sorry for the smuggler. Or, he would have, if the sight of Herrah's remembrance yellow didn't make his body go still. He finally dragged in a shaky breath, and dared to look up, the face of some pretty boy stared back at him, and Boba was going to _tear his face off_ if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boba: *continuously compares his aunt with his father*  
> Boba: *starts to associate the two in his mind*  
> Boba: *hallucinating the cousins for each other*  
> Boba: wow this sure is a Healthy Coping Mechanism. I hope this doesn't Awaken anything in me.  
> Boba: *calls Herrah Jango exactly once.*  
> Boba:... KARk.


	25. Akaan'ade - Drabble - A Chip Of Another Age (TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I,, would like to apologize for posting this.  
> I know I was like, no! no! palps said no to chips because the jedi are fuckin terrifying shdkjad-- AND HE DID
> 
> IN THAT UNIVERSE.
> 
> (Micah uses He/They pronouns in this drabble. Which might be a spoiler, but I don't care.)

Micah considered the robes in his hands. They had always meant home, had always meant community. They were a symbol of a great order now purged, and had always been a stable meaning in his life.

The fire crackled, and the fabric of his kute, something that should’ve been comforting, brushed up against his skin and brought him nothing but reminders of absence. He was cold, and wearing far less layers than he was used to. 

Being a Jedi wasn’t a choice that people tended to come back from. Whether because they had fallen, because they had lived their full lives within the order, or because the risks, the risks that all of them took everyday they stepped outside, and chose to do good, had ended their lives earlier than some would’ve preferred. 

Micah had grown up with two cultures, and they fought in his mind every waking moment. His next breath was shaky, and his grip on his robes had creased the folds. He looked down at them, and regretted it when he was finally able to properly recognize the color of them in the light coming off of his meager, smokeless, fire. 

He didn’t own as many robes as some Jedi, but didn’t live out of a single set like some nomadic ones might. These were his greys. The color was like smoke, not something off of a tame fire, fed one material, but possibly a house fire. Something raging. His greys had seen hardship, and sweet love. Platonic and romantic. He proposed in those robes, and had held Lance in those robes.

Had held Lance up to the very end.

Micah couldn’t bring himself to drop them. He simply kept on clinging. Eventually, after a minute filled with nothing but the sound of wood crackling, and his own soft, measured breathing, he had managed to pry away the outer robe. It was dark brown, and a symbol of rank. His padawans had constantly shoved their hands into the pockets of them, searching for holo-pads or notes on torn flimsi, or whatever food he had snatched for himself.

Numbingly, he spread it open to its full height. The thickness of the fabric blocked out the firelight. He hesitated, and dropped one hand, he used it to look for those inner pockets. His fingers caught on something smooth, nothing at all like the coarse fabric and he didn’t hesitate to pull it out. The little scrap of flimsi was nothing at all like something he’d do. Jotting down a figure or a point. The hand holding the robe up still dropped, and the outer robe lay on the ground as if discarded.

He carefully unfolded it, and almost immediately dropped it. Reflexes not yet overused were the only thing keeping the slip from falling into the flame. He keened, and it was a mournful sound. Any other day, any other time, and Micah might’ve smiled upon seeing his husband's handwriting in his clothes. Berating him for one thing or another, or teasingly asking for thanks for finding it.

This time, it was a harsh reminder.

He couldn’t even make an attempt to bring his gloves up to his eyes before tears had already managed to well up and stream down his cheeks. Already raw with the heat emanating from the fire, they burned against his face. No Mandalorian would ever be numb, and he was no exception. The tears swelled.

He rubbed at his face with his gloves anyways, carefully ignoring the sting in favor of clearing his eyes. He was still holding the note, and the sight of it in his hands made him want to howl, to give up whatever cover and protection he had in favor of sobbing recklessly.

The note itself was nothing special, nothing out of the normal for Lance. Micah always left his outer robe draped across chairs, or haphazardly splayed across tables or counters, and once he found it, there was usually something shoved inside of the inner pockets. He had almost forgotten his robe this campaign, and Commander Hyacinth had been the one to offer it up before they loaded on the transports. 

He remembered taking it, shooting off a quick smile that he knew made the Commander uncomfortable, and signing a thank you before swinging it on. The only medic on that transport was them. It was a good squad. Hyacinth’s squad. Blackjack had accidentally elbowed him when they took off, and he was far too busy snickering at the looks the poor man got to think to check his pockets. 

So it was now, with his skin raw, and tears flowing, and heart completely and utterly wrenched from his chest, that Micah was able to finally read the note that had somehow survived up to this point. His hands were unnervingly steady. 

‘How is anyone supposed to trust you to raise all these kids if you forget your robe in one of the last battles of the era? You’d freeze without me.’ It was so dumb, so typical of Lance, and his fingers traced the shape of the letters. There wasn’t a signature, but there was a little face grinning into his soul on the back of the scrap, and he had been putting up with this for the better part of his life.

Micah stood up in his boots, and tossed the thick robe into the fire. His tears hadn’t slowed, but he had carefully managed his volume, so there was no one there to see the Master Jedi collapse as soon as the sparks flew upwards, no one there to hear quiet, aching sobs tear themselves out of the mess of scar tissue he called a throat. The robes he had folded across his lap landed onto the ground, and the grey fabric blended in with the perch as the sun sunk further across the horizon.

The fire ate at the robe, with difficulty, but Micah had grudgingly kept it going so it could eat through the treated fabric. Part of him wanted to be cruel, wanted to know if the clones would even spare a glance at the smoldering robe if they came across it, if they would feel shock or pity, or horror. But the better part of his mind, the one that had taken over once Lance had fallen, had simply pushed it further in.

He didn’t want to watch it burn, so he turned his gaze on the horizon, wishing that the cool air would finally get to him, and ease the heat. Something had shattered when Hyacinth had picked up the comm. He thought, absentmindedly, that it might’ve been himself.

He glanced back at his fire, no longer smokeless, but trying to eat through something designed not to succumb to flame. It wasn’t like there was industrial grade acid anywhere, no matter how much he wished for a vat on several occasions. 

His mind was veering off of the big picture, off of the sorrow and heartbreak and the feeling that his mother probably would have described as betrayal. 

He knew, once he had started speaking of his mother, that all serenity had shattered, and with it, all emotion, he was a Jedi, and part of maintaining his better balance was staying away from some very specific people. He looked at the fire, at those lovers' robes, and he tossed his greys. They smoldered, and a recently absent sting rose to his eyes again. 

Sadness was better than being uncompassionate and angry. Mourning was healthier than suffocation, and revenge would only make him hurt all that more. He didn’t want to glance into his battalion's blank faces, didn’t want to see them ever go still, it was better this way. He’d hurt fewer people this way. 

The fire quietly ate itself to death, the Mandalorian rose with the next sun, and the Jedi inside of them tangled itself and cried into slumber. It was better this way. For everyone.

The only thing on that shelf, other than ashes and faint scents only a keen, engineering nose could pick out, was a scrap of flimsi. Worn soft, a note from one lover to another. Just one scrap in a universe of thousands. The clones simply dismissed it, and continued their hunt for a traitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow,, don't you hate me now,, I sure do.


End file.
